Gravity
by Azertyrobaz
Summary: Sequel to Clarity. Clara Oswald helps Malcolm Tucker clear his name. Jamie MacDonald and several other characters from TTOI make appearances along the way.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Sequel to Clarity. I've done my best to make the story understandable to people who haven't read the first part, but I'd still encourage you to read it. :)

It's darker and angstier than Clarity, and I've chosen to rate it as 'M' just to be on the safe side given the subject matters. Once again, I hope you enjoy. I'll try to update regularly and there should be at least as many chapters as Clarity (i.e., ten) if not more.

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**Gravity - Chapter 1**

It was her fourth day back after the holidays. "2006, here we go," thought Clara, wishing she could drown out the sound of the man speaking too close to her ear. He probably imagined that she was enjoying his _witty _remarks. But she had stopped listening to him a while ago. Just as she had stopped listening to her Minister, who was addressing the room at large. This wasn't like her, she usually was quite attentive and studious when Bill Collins spoke. But then, he usually wasn't speaking somewhere where she remembered having enjoyed curry and lager with Malcolm Tucker. The memory distracted her. It had only happened about a fortnight before, after all. Why did the meeting have to take place in this particular room?

They were discussing a joint proposal with the people from the Department of Social Affairs. Well, Social Affairs _and_ Citizenship, as of a few days ago. Which meant that, unfortunately, they would have to work together on a number of key issues. Unfortunately, according to Clara at least, because the DoSAC Minister - who had come accompanied by two of his advisors and a press officer wearing a bright pink suit - looked like the kind of person who could leave his house in the morning not realising that he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. He had paid less attention to what the Education Minister had been saying than Clara, which was actually saying a lot, since she had mostly been enjoying a trip down memory lane.

They should have met at the Sanctuary Buildings, she thought. Since DoSAC was moving to a new location sometime in the next month, it had been deemed easier to meet at Downing Street. She remembered agreeing with her Minister that it was a _great_ idea, already imagining that she might catch a glimpse of Malcolm at one point. But sitting in the very room where they had eaten dinner and so close to his actual office was almost akin to torture. Especially with that bespectacled tosser next to her whispering gibberish. His fake camaraderie was grating on her nerves. He might think that his own Minister was an idiot - and given what Mr. Abbott had felt compelled to say, she couldn't help but agree - but this didn't mean that it was what _she_ thought of hers. And she wouldn't mind if he stopped talking and let her pretend to listen to her boss 's speech, thank you very much.

Fortunately, Mark, who was sitting on her other side, was taking notes. She liked Mark. He was a senior advisor for Mr. Collins she had recently come to spend more time with, and he showed far more professionalism than the like of M & Ems, for instance. But his note taking implied that he couldn't possibly save her from the drivel escaping the DoSAC employee. She was on the verge of not so politely ask him to _shut the fuck up_ when the meeting was finally adjourned. She'd have to inquire discreetly for a summary of what had been said from Mark. He wouldn't resent her for that since she had covered for him a few times in the last month, when he'd had to leave early because of his kids.

They were now all shaking hands and congratulating themselves for having spent close to two hours discussing something that would in all likelihood never leave this room. Joint proposals never really worked, let's be honest. If ministries barely functioned on their own, how could they possibly function better in twos? Clara stood up gratefully and smiled at the required people, wanting to escape the clingy DoSAC advisor. But he was following her. And kept on talking. They were now just outside the door. Clara had already told her colleagues she would go back to the Sanctuary Buildings on her own - thus allowing her to linger for a few minutes at Number 10 - and she needed to come up with a strategy to get rid of the pasty-faced geezer.

"Reeder, right?" she finally interrupted, and looked up at him. _Christ, he was tall_.

"Olly, yeah," he added, smiling, pathetically glad that she remembered his name.

"Listen..." she started, but it was no use, he was on a roll, and she had missed the beginning of his sentence.

"...and I thought that we could meet to exchange notes and, you know, wink, have coffee or something."

Olly Reeder was the kind of person who said 'wink' and winked at the same time. If this wasn't the ultimate proof that she needed to run for the hills, then her name wasn't...

"Clara Oswald!"

She faced the corridor and looked for the source of that voice, hoping her smile wasn't too obvious.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" quizzed the jovial Jamie MacDonald, his wide blue eyes travelling between the two of them.

"Actually..." started Reeder, blushing slightly and obviously thrown by the arrival of the loud Scot.

"Have you seen the big man?" asked Jamie, paying no attention to what Olly was saying.

"The big man?" couldn't help but stutter the DoSAC advisor, his eyes staring enviously at Clara, "You've met the PM, Clara?"

"I wasn't talking about _him_, you dafty. And he's a wee thing, really. No, I was talking about Malcolm, of course!" announced Jamie, throwing his arm around Clara's shoulders conspiratorially.

"This lass here and Malcolm Tucker go way back. Isn't that right, Clara? Thick as thieves, I should say. Right?" he added, hugging her side against his and staring at Reeder whose slight blush had turned into a full blown red face. He might have never met the PM - neither had Clara, after all - but he had definitely come across Malcolm Tucker. This was made obvious by his reaction and terrified eyes.

"I was actually just on my way to see him, his office is right around the corner, you know," at this, the taller man walked backwards a few steps, trying to escape, "why don't we go together, Clara? I'm sure he'd _love_ to see you," he added unnecessarily, since Reeder had already made his hasty exit with a whispered 'bye' in her direction.

Clara disengaged herself from Jamie's hold when she saw the conference room emptying, and waited until the various ministers and advisors had gone until she fully turned towards the grinning man. She tried frowning but it was difficult to keep a straight face when all she could think about was Olly Reeder's crestfallen expression when he had heard the name 'Malcolm Tucker'.

"You are such an arsehole," she couldn't help but blurt out, which only made Jamie laugh harder, "but thank you, I didn't know how to get rid of him."

"Those DoSAC people, they're the worst," acknowledged Jamie, "they always fuck something up."

"And now that they have taken on Citizenship, we'll have to work together," Clara added, shuddering at the prospect of spending time with Oliver Reeder and his Minister on a regular basis.

"So, have you seen Malcolm yet?" asked Jamie, who had started walking again.

"No, not since I got back," she admitted. But she'd been pretty busy, after all, and up until that afternoon, she didn't have much time to stop and think about meeting him. Who was she kidding? Of course she had been thinking about Malcolm. The memory of the time they'd spent together before Christmas had been playing in her mind constantly, and helped her deal with the rest of the holidays.

"I'm on my way there now, let's go."

"All this wasn't for Reeder's benefit, then?" inquired Clara, following him to another set of Georgian doors at the end of the corridor.

"No no, as much as I love playing the knight in shining armour, I have a valid reason for being here, believe it or not," he grinned.

"Are you sure..." Clara started saying, fearing she might catch the PM's enforcer at a bad time, but Jamie had already led her inside the office. He hadn't even knocked, she noticed.

Clara had spent time in Malcolm Tucker's office before. She remembered quite clearly that snowy afternoon when all three of them had planned how to get rid of a nasty article and its author. In the end, Malcolm had been forced to erase the journalist from the UK Press Card registry. A risky move, given that it was of course illegal, but necessary.

The Director of Communications was sitting behind his desk. He was on the phone - for a change - but he'd raised his considerable eyebrows when she entered. Clara thought she perceived a small smile at the corner of his lips. He straightened up on his chair, and they heard him wrap up his call. His hair was getting a bit long, thought Clara. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't like this rumpled look on him. With his slightly greying brown curls and loose tie.

Jamie was the first to speak once Malcolm had put the phone back on its cradle.

"Got those précis you wanted, and the _Daily Mail_ called again about those invisible tax cuts their fucking medium has apparently foreseen."

"I don't know where they're getting this, nobody's been speaking about bloody tax cuts," sighed Malcolm, taking a quick look at the files Jamie had brought down.

"They're just hacked off because nothing's been happening since the New Year. But hey, brought you a present," he said, gesturing towards Clara who stood in the background even though Malcolm's eyes had scarcely left her figure since she'd come in, "I rescued her from the clutches of DoSAC's grown-up foetus boy."

"Olly Reeder?" asked Malcolm unnecessarily, considering that Jamie's description had been spot-on.

"I'm pretty sure he was flirting with her. The fucking nerve of that lad!" he added, apparently enjoying his boss's comically horrified expression and Clara's internal wince.

"He what?"

His voice was colder than Clara had expected. Surely he realised that Jamie was having him on. And that she'd never... But then, Malcolm Tucker could sometimes react unexpectedly.

"We were having a meeting with Mr. Abbott and some people from DoSAC about a joint proposal for Citizenship and Education," Jamie predictably snickered, "and that moron Reeder kept banging on about his _brilliant_ ideas. I'd never met him before - he's clingier than a labrador puppy with less than a fraction of its appeal."

She sat in front of him, even though he probably didn't have much time to spare her, but she wanted their eyes to meet over the desk. He seemed somewhat reassured by her serene expression and honest stare, and his shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

"I'll be on my way," said Jamie, already walking towards the door with a satisfied expression on his face, "looks like you kids need to plan a date or something."

Clara rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Malcolm merely thanked him and didn't comment on his cheeky words. They both knew he was probably right.

"How were your holidays?" asked Clara a few seconds later, fearing he would bring the subject of the DoSAC advisor back.

"Nice enough," he replied non-committally.

She let her eyes roam over the walls of his office and she smiled when they fell on a splash of colour behind his chair.

"I see you got some new drawings," she supplied.

He smiled slightly in turn and nodded, "Liz's wean insisted my office needed decorating. And I like the way it throws people."

"Wolf in sheep's clothing, right?" she replied, thinking that it was indeed a suitable description for him. Well, for people who didn't know him very well, at least. When he was at work, he was more of a wolf in shark's clothing, if such a thing could be achieved.

"How was Liverpool?" he inquired, and Clara realised that this small talk was there to hide his nervousness. Malcolm Tucker didn't do small talk. Not because he didn't know how to do it, but because he simply didn't have the time. But surprisingly, no phone had started ringing since she got here, and no one had knocked on the door with some urgent papers for him to sign.

She answered his question with a distinctive Gallic shrug. She'd rather not talk about it. Not now, at least. Not when they were so pressed for time and so utterly new at this. Whatever _this_ was.

"Alright, I guess. And I spent New Year's Eve back here with some friends." She'd gone to Martha's for a party, but wouldn't admit that she had more fun reacquainting herself with her dog - she'd missed him terribly - than meeting Martha and Mickey's friends.

Malcolm nodded, his fingers drumming on the desk and his steel-grey eyes piercing her. Clara knew perfectly well that their coming together was now a matter of _when_ rather than _if_. They'd been dancing on the edge for far too long, it seemed. Even though they'd met less than a month ago. Their behaviour at the moment was actually more akin to staring down a precipice than dancing. But she wouldn't mind jumping, as long as Malcolm jumped with her.

"Clara..." he started, but he was interrupted by his desk phone ringing. He angrily pressed a button without glancing at it and the noise stopped immediately. What he meant to tell her must have been important, then. Clara swallowed automatically. Having Malcolm Tucker's entire focus directed at herself was more than a little terrifying.

"That idiot Reeder," she blurted out, incapable of stopping herself, "he was just... He was just a prat, really, I would never entertain the thought of flirting with a guy like that."

Where was this coming from? Why had she felt the need to justify herself? She'd done nothing wrong, and this had nothing to do with what they were discussing - or not discussing, as it were. Still, she'd felt compelled to say something. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. As though she couldn't hide anything from him.

"You're saying he's not your type, then?" Malcolm asked, raising his eyebrows, and Clara relaxed - his half-smirk told her he was enjoying himself and her predicament. _Jerk_.

"I've never gone for the public schoolboy look, no. Especially when it seems that they haven't left school, yet," she replied in a fake-serious tone.

"What about soon-to-be middle aged Scots who've never seen the inside of a University?" he added, and Clara could tell that under the veneer of humour, lied an important question.

"It depends," she told him.

"On what?" He looked slightly unsure, now.

"On whether the soon-to-be middle aged Scot would be ready to handle a twenty-eight year old bossy half-French."

"Oh, I don't think _handling_ her would be a problem, no," he countered easily, and his obvious pun made her grin.

"Good, then," she announced, standing up. She'd love nothing more than bantering with Malcolm Tucker for the rest of the afternoon, but they both had workloads to get back to.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, as a parting word, "Oliver Reeder? Absolutely no chance. For one thing, he's far too tall. Highly unpractical." She enjoyed his somewhat dumbfounded expression and walked towards the door.

"Do you want to go to the River Café in Hammersmith on Friday?" he asked her quickly, her fingers on the handle and his phone ringing again in the background.

"It's posh as shit," he told her once she was facing him, "but the food's good."

"I'd like that," she replied, blushing slightly.

He nodded and graced her with one last small smile before picking up his phone.

"Tucker," she heard him say in his usual scolding tone, just as she was closing his office door.

Clara was replaying their conversation as she exited Downing Street. She felt lighter than she had in days, but couldn't help but worry in advance about Friday. They had shared a few meals together, though never in public. She hoped they'd manage to relax and have a nice time. So immersed was she in her inner world, that she didn't pay attention to the three uniformed officers she came across before leaving. If she had, they would have undoubtedly darkened her mood. But since she didn't, no sense of foreboding intruded her journey back to the Sanctuary Buildings. It was only that night, when Jamie called her, that the image resurfaced.

"Jamie, to what do I owe the pleasure?" It was close to midnight, but she had recognised his number on her home phone.

"Clara?" She sat up immediately, hearing in this single word that something was very wrong.

"What is it?" she asked him in a small voice, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Malcolm's been arrested," he told her simply, his tone devoid of its usual mirth.

"What do you mean?"

"The police came to his office after you left, and they arrested him."

"But..." she started, frowning.

"We got him out but it looks bad..." he interrupted her, and she could tell he now hesitated adding anything else.

"Tell me," she inquired resolutely, her free hand clenched.

"They found pictures on his computer. Someone must have tipped them off," he exhaled loudly.

"Pictures?" This didn't make any sense.

"Yes, you know, pictures that shouldn't have been there. Pictures of..." a beat, "little children."

"Oh my God!" she let out, her eyes no longer seeing her sitting room, her ears no longer listening to Jamie on the other end of the line.

"But..." She stopped. And for several nerve-wracking seconds, the only thing they both heard was their rapid breathing. _This was a mistake, surely. There was just no way... Right?_

Images kept assailing her mind. Malcolm the first time she saw him at the Treasury Party. Malcolm giving her a ride in his car. Malcolm walking her dog with her. Malcolm kissing her forehead on his doorstep and looking at her with something that felt very much like love. Had she been wrong about him all this time? Was he the kind of man who could manage to deceive everyone in his life?

But there were other images, ones that evoked feelings that were harder to describe. Malcolm sending an advisor who'd manhandled her on an unexpected trip to rural Wales. Malcolm looking lost at the idea of his abusive childhood being exposed in an article. Malcolm telling his sister on the phone that he'd be on time to read her children a story before they went to bed. Malcolm listening to her talking about her mum. Malcolm's proud smile at his nephew's drawings in his office this afternoon. _No._

"It's a set up," she whispered to Jamie, fearing now - perhaps justifiably - that someone might be listening.

The young man's relieved sigh on the other end told her that he had come to the same conclusion. And that he was glad not to be alone in this particularly rocky boat. Clara knew that he had two kids of his own: if he believed Malcolm innocent, then there was no room for any lingering doubt in her mind.

"That's what I think, too," he told her quietly.

"Hewitt," they then both said at the same time.

"I'm going to get him out of this, Clara," he pledged, "Sarah...my wife, she's a lawyer, and her brother's a QC. We'll prove it wasn't him. And I'll make sure he still has a fucking job waiting for him when it is all over, I'll make sure no one finds out."

He was mostly trying to convince himself, but Clara still found his words encouraging.

"Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I want to help," she said earnestly, her mind set. _He's innocent_. _It's a set up. Everything will be okay._

"2006, here we go indeed" she thought once more, after Jamie had told her his plan.


	2. Chapter 2

**Gravity - Chapter 2**

Malcolm had lost track of days. He knew that he had spent quite a long time raging and drinking at first - Glenfiddich, he didn't even like Glenfiddich for Christ's sake - screaming at the four walls surrounding him uselessly. The empty bottles had looked accusingly at him in his subsequent feverish delirium. He wasn't quite sure if he'd got a cold from wandering outside in the rain or if it was merely the alcoholic haze. But he had felt like crap, and spent hours shivering under a scratchy blanket on the rickety sofa. He had debated whether he should open another bottle - his last one, perhaps he should hold on to it. He was well aware that he could be stuck there for a while, and he didn't relish the prospect of walking to the nearest shop, since he'd forgotten where it was.

The _fucking_ Isle of Wight. He'd probably laugh if the situation wasn't so tragic and if his head wasn't pounding so painfully. He should have eaten something, perhaps. But his shaking hadn't abated yet. The fever would break soon, then he'd have something. Soup, he thought. He had seen Jamie put some tins in the cupboard over the sink.

The cabin was small and dark. He could hear the wind howling outside. Or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him - it wouldn't be the first time. He was certain he'd heard his big sister Kate speaking at one point during the night. The house belonged to someone in Sarah's family. An uncle, he thought. Mike, her QC brother, had suggested he stayed there for a while. He hated the fact that he was hiding like a bloody coward. Surely it would be easier to do something to help his own cause from London. Or at least from somewhere he knew and where he had friends, like Glasgow. But there was one fact he hated even more and which was preventing him from doing anything about his situation - he absolutely loathed the idea of possibly putting people he cared about in danger. It would be too risky to be seen with either of his sisters. And Jamie and his wife were already sticking their necks out for him by preparing his defence.

He'd never forgive himself if they came to any harm because of him. He hadn't even asked for their help, but they'd been there. Sarah had immediately taken on his case and her lawyering skills had gotten him out of the police station a few hours after his arrest. His burning fever had forced him to relive that first night: their insistence that he should stay put at their house for the time being, Jamie going to his place in the middle of the night to pack some stuff for him, Sarah's unshakeable belief that he was innocent. He hadn't needed to say it, they'd both automatically known that he was being set up. Malcolm didn't think he'd ever be able to express his gratitude to them - whatever the outcome turned out to be. There hadn't been a shred of unease or doubt in their eyes when their two toddlers had rushed unsteadily to the couch the next morning, wondering why 'Mac' was there. He had grabbed little Lucy out of reflex and sat her on his knees, and when he'd looked up at her parents, frozen in fear, he had read only trust and compassion on their faces. It was the only time since this whole ordeal had started when he had felt on the verge of tearing up.

Malcolm tried to focus his exhausted brain on tangible facts - being convinced of one's innocence wasn't enough. Especially when his fever had started putting dreadful images in his mind, and whispering horrible thoughts in his ear. Maybe he got what he deserved. Or worse, maybe he'd finally cracked and _had_ actually downloaded those pictures on his computer. In the last few days, it had sometimes been easier to believe in his guilt than in his innocence. If he was guilty, then he was there in this cabin in the middle of nowhere for a good reason, and his friends were just too blind to see the truth. But they would eventually see it when he'd be sent to gaol.

He pushed the thought back forcefully. _No. I didn't do it._ Malcolm felt so fucking tired and weak. If only he could sleep it off and wake up in his own bed. Or in his office. Or in his old bedroom in Glasgow, even, with the peeling flowery wallpaper and the leaky radiator. The smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen next door. The sound of his mother's singing in the background over a record, very quietly. Chet Baker. It must have been a good day, then - music meant his father wasn't there. His shaking stopped, and Malcolm let the memory soothe him into a dreamless sleep.

"Malcolm, wake up."

_Just five more minutes, mum._

"Come on, Malc."

_I don't feel so good. Perhaps I should stay home._

"You're worrying me, man. Wake up!"

_Okay, okay, I'm up. Wait..._

"There you go, rise and shine!"

Malcolm blinked. Everything hurt. His head, his eyes, his cramping legs and empty stomach. His fucking eyebrows, even.

"What?" he asked Jamie, not realising where he was, yet.

When he sat up on the small sofa, it all came back to him. He lowered his pounding head between his knees and tried to breathe in slowly. The walls were closing in on him and he felt like throwing up. When he opened his eyes once more, there was a glass of water in front of him. He held it unsteadily and drowned it in one gulp.

"Jesus, Malcolm. You need to better take care of yourself, you look like crap."

"Thanks," he couldn't help but answer tersely, although Jamie looked glad that he was grumbling over something. He sat on the coffee table in front of him, and tried to ignore the empty bottles of whisky.

"Are you okay?"

"Spectacular, can't you tell?" The water had definitely revived him, and despite his blinding headache, he realised that his thoughts were clearer than they had been in days. Also, the fever had apparently finally let go of him.

"Have you eaten anything since you arrived?"

"What day is it?"

"Saturday. You've been here for five days. Can't you remember?" Jamie looked worried.

"I ate," he lied.

"At least you've drunk something," he added, finally acknowledging the three empty bottles, "you must have been desperate, I know how much you dislike Glenfiddich."

"And you're a bastard for leaving me with it in the first place," he replied, but without malice.

Jamie smiled slightly and Malcolm took the time to look at him more closely. He'd known Jamie for years, and they'd dealt with some pretty intense situations before. But nervousness had never been so clearly etched on his colleague's face. He sighed, and suffered the weight of the situation and the responsibility he'd unwillingly placed on his friend's own shoulders once more.

"How are things?" he eventually asked, choosing to remain as vague as possible.

"It could be a lot worse," Jamie started, "very few people know that you've been arrested, and even less why."

"It's usually how it's done in cases like these, cops tend to be discreet. Good thing I haven't been framed for murder, they'd be interviewing everyone." But Malcolm would have actually felt a lot better it that were the case. He'd gladly admit to almost any other crime that the one he was falsely accused of.

"Sam can't stop crying, she asked me to bring you this," he told him, raising a heavy plastic bag filled with books. He felt a pang of sadness, thinking about his devoted PA. She was one of the very few who knew what was happening.

"People are speculating that you've been diagnosed with cancer, or something. And actually, it might work as your cover story once you get back, given how dreadful you look."

It was probably meant as a joke in order to diffuse the heavy atmosphere, but Malcolm was starting to wonder what he actually looked like. He raised his hands to his face, feeling the heavy stubble growing there, and slid his fingers through his hair. The wet and salty sea air made them curlier than usual, and reminded him of Glasgow once more. He'd kept them short ever since he'd arrived to work in London. The Yorkshire sheep look wasn't very scary or professional, according to him. Jamie obviously disagreed, although Malcolm had to admit that his Byronic profile often worked in his favour.

"It's a new style I'm working on," he deadpanned.

"Sarah managed to glean from the police that they haven't found anything on your home computer. According to her, this will help prove that you were set up. Lots of people can access your work computer. And it wouldn't make sense for you to have those files at the office but not at your place."

This piece of news relieved him. The idea of someone accessing his computer in his own home, even if it was done from a distance, greatly unnerved him. His house was his refuge from the craziness of Whitehall. He didn't want anyone intruding it.

"She probably isn't enjoying all that extra work."

"Are you kidding?" Jamie replied, his face taking on an intense expression Malcolm was more familiar with, "She's loving it. That's what she's good at. They've been giving her easy stuff at work ever since she came back from maternity leave, and she was starting to get a bit restless."

Well, at least someone was happy, he thought. But he knew that if anyone could prove his innocence, it would be Sarah. There was a reason why Jamie and her had such a well-functioning relationship: they were both highly focussed, thorough, and ruthless when necessary.

"I know you must be going slightly bonkers here, with the unreliable reception and the absence of modem or TV," Malcolm harrumphed at that, knowing that his alcohol consumption had been directly caused by this maddening factor, "so I've made you copies of everything I could get my hands on. Reports, analysis and so on. Sarah didn't want me to give them to you, but I know I'd want to have them if I were in your shoes."

"Even though I can't do anything about them from here," Malcolm answered darkly, but he still took the files gratefully.

"We talked about this..." started Jamie, sighing, "I know you want to help, big man, and I understand. But..."

"But it's safer for the investigation if I just disappear for a while and don't make waves, yes, I know, that's what you _all _said."

"Not just safer for the investigation, Malc, safer for you. Safer for your future. You _do_ want your job back at the end of all this, right?" Jamie made sure.

"Of course," Malcolm replied, without taking the time to actually think about his answer, "but it's not really something I can fucking control, is it?"

"If you lay low and no one has any reason to doubt you, it might be. This will never go to trial, Malc. Or at least, not with you in the dock."

"Any proof that it's Hewitt, yet?"

"No, nothing, but it's got to be him, we'll keep on looking."

Malcolm sighed, knowing that it was no use to try and change Jamie's mind. He was stuck here for the time being. But he knew he'd have to try and find something to occupy his mind soon, lest he wanted to destroy all his remaining sluggish grey cells with the help of bland whisky. He stood up slowly from the sofa, and nearly fell back on his seat. His legs were like rubber. Jamie didn't comment, but he watched him closely making his way to the small kitchen.

"Tea?" he asked, realising that he hadn't asked his colleague if he wanted anything. He felt bad for not showing Jamie more kindness. He'd driven all the way from London, after all.

"I can't stay, I've got to catch the ferry in an hour," he told him a little sadly.

In the five days he'd been on this godforsaken island, Malcolm hadn't had the time to feel lonely. He was used to it, after all. He might meet and talk and shout at plenty of people during the day, but he always went home to an empty house. He didn't mind, he liked spending time on his own. At least, he thought he did.

"Did you get Clara's message?" asked Jamie in a small, unsure voice, as though he had been reading his thoughts.

Malcolm frowned. He was too exhausted to get properly angry, but he wouldn't mind trying anyway.

"Why the _fuck_ did you tell her?" he lashed out, turning back too quickly and feeling faint as a result.

He knew the message she'd left by heart. He'd listened to it a few times, masochistically enjoying the pain it procured him to hear her voice in such a dramatic setting: three o'clock in the morning, the cold rain pelting his face and the sound of the churning sea below him on the cliff outside. It was the only place he could get reception on his phone - not his precious BlackBerry of course, oh no, he'd had to leave it in London - his old-fashioned emergency phone which would now accurately announce doom every time it rang and played Chopin's _Funeral March_. If it _could_ ring, of course.

_"Malcolm, it's Clara. Jamie told me what happened. He said he'd get you somewhere safe and that he had a plan to clear your name." _She sighed at that point, a poignant sigh which always knocked something loose somewhere deep in his chest. _"I know you didn't do it, Malcolm. I know you're innocent. And I'll help Jamie in any way I can. But... If you want to talk or need me for anything, please don't hesitate to call. Stay strong. I'll still be there when it is all over."_

Her last sentence was the one which puzzled him the most. What did she actually mean? That she'd be there once he'd be found innocent, or that she'd be there even if he was found guilty? _When it is all over. _He'd felt like throwing his phone over the cliff, and him with it.

"She needed to know, Malcolm," said Jamie, bringing him back to the present and to the stuffy cabin, "she deserved to know. And she could help."

"How? I can't even call her, the reception is too crappy except for receiving messages, and the closest phone-box is two miles away."

His colleague shrugged, but seemed certain that he'd still made the right call in informing her. Malcolm let his thoughts drift and went back to sit on the sofa in front of Jamie. He was cold all of a sudden, and put the scratchy blanket over his shoulders. There was a tiny bedroom at the back of the house, with a small double-bed, but he hadn't felt like sleeping there. It would mean accepting the fact that he had to live in this place, and he wasn't ready for that yet.

"We were supposed to go to the River Café together on Friday," he told him in a matter-of-fact tone.

"That sounds nice," replied Jamie non-committally.

"Yesterday," he amended, and the realisation gave him pause. Inviting her seemed like a very distant memory, now. One he could never possibly get back to, no matter what Clara was saying in her message. It had been stupid of him to think that he could do something as normal as going on a date with a pretty girl. Pathetic, even.

"I'm sure she'd have enjoyed it," added the younger Scot, perceiving how dark his boss's mood was turning.

"Bloody liar, I'd have surely said something to fuck things up," Malcolm was smiling, but it was a cold smile.

"Maybe," agreed Jamie, "but she likes you. I really think you should call her, her home phone should be perfectly safe."

It was his turn to shrug, choosing not to offer any answer. Sarah and her brother had advised him not to use his work mobile, hence abandoning his BlackBerry behind. But they had deemed his emergency phone safe enough, since so few people knew about it. They couldn't know which lines were being monitored, although they were more worried about the person who had set him up rather than the police, who had probably only bugged his home phone. The culprit had managed to get into his computer at Downing Street, what else could he do?

Jamie left after putting the food he'd brought away. He didn't comment when he saw that Malcolm had eaten nothing but crisps, but still put another bottle of whisky on top of the fridge: Highland Park, bless him. Once he'd gone, he warmed up some soup and started pouring over the different files his colleague had left for him. Focusing on the reports made him feel like a human being again. It was easier than he'd anticipated to detach himself from the case, and to pretend that the pages he was reading didn't concern him but rather a random government employee. He wrote down some notes, but tired quickly. Malcolm knew he needed some restorative sleep, one that wouldn't be plagued by feverish visions. But after a long, well-deserved shower, he made his way to the small sofa. Even though he couldn't lie down properly on it, it still held more appeal than the bed.

He slept straight through the next morning and ventured outside with a cup of instant coffee. The rain had abated, but the wind was still strong and the January air cold. He guessed that the house was a nice place, during the Summer. On the way there, Jamie had told him he'd enjoyed the time he'd spent with Sarah in the cabin. But in the Winter, the white-washed walls, thatched roof and unforgiving flagstones inside looked bleak under the grey sky. Malcolm felt the briny atmosphere seep deep inside his very bones, and he shivered. Although his muscles were still cramping slightly, he managed to get a fire going during the day. He made himself a light lunch, and was on the verge of looking through the books Sam had given him when there was a knock on the door.

Jamie couldn't be back already, and he had a key. When the knocking came on again, his curiosity outweighed his worry, and he shuffled to the door.

Clara stood on the other side. Her border collie at her feet, and her body almost disappearing inside her dripping winter coat. Something heavy lodged in his throat and he froze. His fever must be back, he was hallucinating. What would Clara Oswald be doing there, looking so beautiful it made his eyes hurt?

"Malcolm?"

She was good at masking her surprise at his appearance, but not _that_ good. He knew that he looked more than a little rumpled, with bags under his eyes the size of a small country.

"What... what are you doing here?" he asked the living, breathing mirage.

"Jamie told me where you were. Can I come in?"

The rain had started again, he noticed. But it still took him a few seconds to open the door wider and let her walk inside, her boots making squishy sounds on the thin carpet. She put the small holdall he hadn't noticed she was carrying on the floor, and promptly went back outside, without a word. Her dog was sniffing the unknown territory, lingering on the rug in front of the fireplace and under the kitchen chairs. Malcolm barely had time to wonder what was happening before Clara reappeared with a yellow bag of Pedigree dog food almost as big as her. He tried helping her carrying it to the kitchen, but she wouldn't let him, and managed on her own. She made one last trip to her parked red Saxo, and came back with a blue dog leash. Clara held it tightly in her hands, and followed her black and white dog's movements in the small cabin. Eventually, she breathed in deeply, and turned towards him.

"I'm leaving the Doctor with you," she told him matter-of-factly, her eyes set.

"What?" He was clearly still dreaming, her words and behaviour didn't make sense.

"I'm entrusting my dog to your care. I'm hardly ever home these days, and you have a huge garden and the beach a few yards away. He'll be better here with you." She had a hard time focusing on him, and kept staring at the floor, or at the leash she was still holding.

"I don't know how to take care of a bloody dog!" he complained stubbornly, not knowing what reaction was expected of him. And anger always came easily, especially lately.

"It's not that difficult," she replied, frowning, and he could tell she was on the verge of losing it - be it her patience or her nerves.

"Feed him once a day, make sure he always has water and walk him as often as you can. Everything he needs is in the holdall. The food should last a while, and I left you a list." At this, she took out a piece of paper from a pocket inside her coat, and put it on the coffee table.

"But... I don't understand, why are you doing this?"

She studied his face and stared into his eyes - the first time she actually looked at him from up close since her arrival. She forced herself to smile.

"I think you need him more than me at the moment," she told him sadly, "I know you'll manage."

She put the blue leash delicately on the table next to her note, her movements slow and deliberate. It was obvious she had a very hard time separating herself from the object and what it represented. She patted her whining dog, who surprisingly seemed to understand what was happening. He didn't try to follow Clara as she walked back towards the door, but it was visibly a struggle for him.

"Wait..." started Malcolm, trying to stop her from leaving so soon.

"I can't miss my ferry, I'm sorry" she said, refusing to look at him or her dog again.

"Clara," he tried again, grabbing her elbow just as she was reaching the doorstep.

She turned back towards him, her eyes red. He dropped his hand quickly and attempted to think of something to say, the rain already dampening his collar.

"You told me once that this dog was the most precious thing you had, I can't let you do that."

Her smile, though lopsided, was the most genuine he'd seen since she got here. She seemed glad he remembered her very words in the car that day.

"He is, but I want you to have him with you. I think he'll help you." She then took a few small steps, and came to stand right in front of him.

"Bye, Malcolm," she said, raising her hand to stroke his stubbly cheek, "_please_ take care of yourself."

Then she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Gravity - Chapter 3**

Clara wasn't sure whether it had been Malcolm or the Doctor she'd had a harder time leaving. Her eyes had remained resolutely dry up until she reached the ferry. She had thought that she would have the opportunity to actually go on the deck this time, since she no longer had her dog in the car. But now that she had parked, she couldn't make herself move from the enclosed space. The unforgiving noise of the huge engine felt surprisingly good to her ears, and prevented her from thinking too much. The past week kept replaying in her head nonetheless - the doubts, the fear, the sadness. And her sudden realisation the previous night that she _had _to go, _had_ to see him for herself. Jamie had called her after his trip to the isle of Wight on Saturday, and he hadn't been able to mask his unease. He'd told her not to worry of course, and almost refused to give her his friend's exact location. Clearly, the man didn't know yet how stubborn she could be - the very fact that he didn't want her to go made her want to reach the remote cabin even more.

She'd taken her dog with her almost on a whim. Still, it had only taken one glance of him to realise that he badly needed something to occupy his mind. Jamie had warned her that he was ill, but Clara hadn't thought that he could change so drastically in the span of six days. He had looked positively dreadful. Gaunt and shabby, with heavy stubble on his cheeks and unkept hair. Although those were only external signs, after all - she had expected him to look poorly. What she hadn't expected to see was the defeat in his eyes. The utter conviction that nothing could be done. That he was crushed and would stay crushed. _This_ had been the most painful thing to witness. Not his lined face or his shaking hands or his malnourished state.

She congratulated herself once more for having managed to hold onto her tears until now. It had been a close call, but it would have achieved absolutely nothing to cry in front of him. He didn't need that from her. She hoped she could have given him more than the comfort she was sure her dog would bring, but this would have to do for now. Clara was even more set on helping Jamie clear his name - seeing him had had this positive outcome, at least. But how would she manage to go back to her day to day life come tomorrow morning? How would she find the strength to go work for a government that had possibly something to do with the situation Malcolm found himself in? This was Jamie's latest theory, and Clara wasn't sure she adhered to it. That being said, she hadn't been working for the government for as long as the two Scots. And she was smart enough to realise that the feared Director of Communications had probably amassed quite a lot of enemies over the years. Still, this didn't ring true to her, and she kept coming back to Hewitt and his deletion from the UK Press Card registry. She couldn't help but feel guilty if that turned out to be the reason Malcolm had been arrested, since she'd been present when he had figuratively pulled the trigger. Perhaps she should have stopped him. Perhaps she should have helped him find a better way to get rid of the damaging article.

There was no point regretting what had happened, now. It was done. And she still faced coming home to an empty house. She hadn't lied when she'd told Malcolm that she barely saw her dog, these days. Her working schedule was hectic, with the new curriculum about to be finally released the following month. But at least the Doctor was there every night when she arrived and every morning when she left. He had been there during the worst period of her life, and Clara felt that they had thus somehow grown up together - or at least matured, in her case. Maybe he could therefore be there for Malcolm during his own calvary.

"How did it go?" asked Jamie that evening when she rang him. They never discussed Malcolm when they bumped into each other at work for fear of eavesdroppers, but they'd started calling each other almost every night. Most times they would voice some new theories and keep each other abreast of any new development in the case, but sometimes they would just talk to remind themselves that they hadn't gotten mad, and that they were taking all these precautions for a very good reason.

"How was he?" he pressed, since Clara couldn't find the right words to answer him.

"He was... not well," she finally said after a beat.

"I warned you."

"I know. But I don't mean just physically. I mean..."

"I know," he interrupted her, sighing, "we'll get him back, you'll see."

"Yeah," she replied, not so certain of that at the moment.

"That's how he is, he doesn't like to stay idle. He's just suffering from cabin fever, so to speak." She heard Jamie laugh slightly at his own joke, but Clara could tell his heart wasn't in it. Nonetheless, she admired him for his attempt to make light of the situation in order to make her feel better.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have gone there," he added after a while.

"I wanted to," she pointed out, "and I don't regret going, I know just how important it is to get him out, now."

"He'll be fucking mad at me for letting you know where he was."

"What makes you say that? He seemed glad enough to see me," she said, realising that she wasn't exactly being truthful.

"He likes you, Clara," Jamie told her very seriously, as though his revelation had potentially dreadful consequences.

"Well, I like him too," she replied easily, all the while knowing how important her words were, and how much Jamie was putting on the line by saying that to her.

"I mean he _really_ likes you," he added, obviously thinking she was being flippant, "and he'll hate himself for showing any sign of weakness to you."

Perhaps Clara should take more time to appreciate Jamie's words. But she didn't have that luxury, not at the moment, and if she was completely honest with herself, she understood very well what he actually meant: _don't fuck him up_. She was amazed once more at the depth of the two colleagues' friendship. It ran surprisingly deep, and Jamie was more perceptive than she had thought when she had first met him.

"I understand what you mean, Jamie, really. And I'm not planning on making things more difficult for him, quite the contrary. I owe him that, and I want him to come back."

"Good."

"And he owes me dinner at a fancy place, as well," she couldn't help but utter, feeling that their conversation needed some levity.

"Yeah, he said something along those lines, you should hold him to that." Clara was glad to hear that Jamie sounded more like himself. Perhaps they'd both manage to sleep easier, that night.

As it was often the case this past week, Clara felt better after her talk with Jamie. It had quickly evolved from a depressing sharing of news into a comforting reassurance. A reassurance that the case was moving in a positive direction, and that Malcolm would soon be able to come home and reclaim his coveted spot at the government. Clara tried not to focus on the fact that they'd barely made headways, and that Malcolm Tucker was still the prime suspect according to the police. It could be a matter of days until they had enough proof to charge him and arrest him again, with the firm intention of locking him up for a very long time.

Clara laid down on her mattress, and breathed in deeply. She had to trust Sarah and her brother. This was _their _job to deal with the police and defend Malcolm in court if the case ever came to trial. Jamie's job was to come up with new theories and likely suspects. So what was her job? Force him to become her dog sitter in the hope that it would prevent him from sinking into despair? Surely, she could do more than that.

The nightmare that woke her up right before dawn cemented that resolution in her. She _had _to do something. Clara was on the verge of calling Malcolm before she remembered that she couldn't reach him. Leaving him a message would be pointless. Why did he have to be so far away? She was pretty sure that the vivid images and the nausea they generated would stay with her all day long, and she almost decided to call in sick. Memories of her own past had mixed with visions of Malcolm. Lost, in pain, alone.

Her heart still hammering in her chest, she closed her eyes, and tried to imagine Malcolm and her dog going about their morning peacefully in the small, far away cabin. _Everything is going to be fine_.

_Everything is going to be fine_, Malcolm kept repeating to himself, like a mantra. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't really working. He had thought that his fever had broken, yet he was still plagued by strange visions. And he now attributed the odd sounds his ears picked up to Clara's dog, although there again he knew he was only trying to make himself feel better. Border-collies didn't usually speak with human voices, after all. Voices that clearly sounded like his mother and sisters. He dreaded the moment when he would start hearing his father, but fortunately it hadn't come, yet.

_Don't worry, Malc, it won't come. But I'm still there, though._

Shut up, Kate.

_What are we going to do with you?_

Leave me alone.

_I'll come and visit you in gaol, don't worry. But do you think Liz will come? With her kids? Do you think she'll take that risk? Just in case?_

Just in case what? She knows I'm innocent.

_Does she? Really?_

Malcolm was still sensible enough to realise that the voices were in his head, and that he had simply externalised his guilt and anger through them. He wasn't actually going mad. As far as cover stories went, though, this could perhaps work in his favour in the long run. _Where was Malcolm Tucker all this time? Don't you know? He was certified and sent to an asylum. Well, it's no wonder really. It was bound to happen someday._ He smiled mirthlessly at that, and tried to go back to sleep. He fixed his eyes on the black and white dog, who hadn't moved from his spot across from him by the fireplace, and tried to focus his thoughts on something else. Something like Clara and her kindness. A kindness he truly did not deserve. He wasn't quite sure yet why she had wanted him to have her dog, but he felt vulnerable enough at the moment to accept her gift without over-thinking its meaning. Perhaps the answer would come to him in his sleep.

When he woke up again there was a new sound. A sound that wasn't caused by the pounding in his ears or his erratic breathing. At first, Malcolm thought it came from outside, since it reminded him of the howling wind. But when he opened his eyes fully, he realised that the noise came from much closer, right next to him in fact. He sat up in fright, then felt something warm and wet against his hand. And when the whining started again, he finally remembered that he was no longer alone in this depressing place.

"Hey, dog, what's wrong?" Malcolm barely remembered his dream, but it must have been a pretty bad one if he was still out of breath.

The border-collie kept making mournful sounds that were almost reminiscent of human cries. Malcolm tried to pet him behind his ears like he had seen Clara do to make him stop, but it still took him a long time. Once the Doctor was calm, he sighed deeply and settled next to the couch, apparently intent on staying right next to him. And Malcolm realised that in the time that it had taken him to reassure the dog that he was okay, he had forgotten everything about his nightmare or what had been in it. He laid back down and kept one of his hands against the Doctor's warm fur. He was lulled back to sleep by the reassuring heartbeat he could feel under his fingers.

It was raining come morning. For a change. But even if the dog hadn't been there and looking in desperate need of a walk, Malcolm would have still gone outside. He wanted to get a better feel of his surroundings and call Jamie. He hadn't made any leap the previous couple of days reading the files his colleague had brought, but he didn't think he could just simply wait until everything resolved itself either. He needed to talk to him and ask him if there had been any new development with the inquiry. But when he finally reached the spot atop the cliff where his phone stopped showing its maddening message that there was 'NO SIGNAL', the Doctor at his heels, he realised once more how powerless he was. He couldn't call him. They had agreed Jamie would only leave him messages if there was news. Just to be on the safe side in case the lines were monitored. But after ten minutes there was still no beep from his phone. No messages, no news.

_What did you expect, son? To be back at your desk in a week's time as though nothing had happened? I raised you better than that._

Piss off.

Monday morning, eight o'clock. Malcolm would be getting ready for his morning briefing. Surprisingly, instead of worrying over the mountain of work waiting for him when he got back - _if _he got back - he looked down at the dog sitting patiently at his feet.

"Why don't we hit the beach, dog? The water must be fucking lovely, this time of year."

He remembered fondly one of the things Clara had written in the note she had left him: "he understands English". It had taken him a while to realise that the young Education advisor wasn't cracked, but merely that she had probably gotten her dog in France, and therefore taught him to respond to orders in French. The Doctor seemed well behaved though, and Malcolm hadn't had the opportunity to give him actual orders yet. Nevertheless, he found himself speaking more and more to the dog as time went on. He often had the peculiar impression that he could understand him. Somehow. Although since he had recently started hearing voices, he conceded that he might not be entirely dependable on the subject.

Given that it was a rainy January morning, the beach was deserted. Malcolm had forgotten to take the leash with him, but this didn't seem to bother the dog, who made the most of the apparently never-ending stretch of yellow sand to rush around. He should have taken that frisbee he'd seen in Clara's holdall, perhaps. The Doctor would have liked that. Although the biting wind might have worked against them. It was definitely colder down there than on top of the cliff, and the sound of the sea was drowning everything else, but unfortunately not the thoughts running in Malcolm's head.

He kept circling back to the same question: who had put those pictures in his computer? According to Jamie's files, the police had discarded the possibility that they had been uploaded remotely. And Sarah's technical expert shared that point of view. Which meant that someone had accessed his computer in his office. It wasn't impossible, since it wasn't exactly guarded, but it couldn't have been Hewitt. Each and every person who came to Downing Street had to log in at the entrance with security. It was absolutely compulsory since 7/7, and even Malcolm knew that it was damn near impossible to slip through. Hewitt hadn't been in the logs. Which meant that it had never been him in the first place or that he had an accomplice. Surprisingly, he wished that it was the former. Because if Hewitt had an accomplice in Downing Street, it could be anyone. Possibly someone he trusted.

Standing on the freezing beach with a yapping dog running circles around him, Malcolm acknowledged for the first time that Jamie and Sarah had been right to send him as far away from London as possible. If he was slightly going out of his mind here, he would have surely utterly lost it over there. Because of his job, Malcolm suffered from regular bouts of paranoia. Fortunately, he knew how to control them and not let them overwhelm him. But living in the constant fear that someone was looking over his shoulder - be it the cops or the culprits - would have been an actual nightmare. Malcolm would have probably given up on his sanity a few days in, and willingly surrendered himself to the police, innocent as he was. Either that, or he'd have gone on a rampage. Which would have given the authorities a very good reason to arrest him, at least.

_Good idea, Malc. Why don't you do that? Jamie and Sarah would be finally rid of you and your hopeless case. They have better things to do. Think of their children. Think of _my_ children, big brother._

He sat down heavily on the wet sand, and observed Clara's dog playing in the small waves crashing near the shore. He didn't seem bothered by the obviously cold water. Or the dark thoughts running in the human's mind. Malcolm had the sudden urge to go swimming. He missed the tranquility it brought him. The sea wasn't raging wildly after all, and surely if he only stayed for a few minutes he wouldn't catch his death. A hot shower in the cabin was close by. And maybe he should play the part of the mad man all the way through. _Fuck it_, Malcolm thought, no one was there to stop him. He took off everything but his boxers, and resolutely walked in the water.

It was so cold he couldn't move once it had reached his thighs, and he thought his heart stopped, frozen, at one point. But Malcolm was of a very stubborn nature - if he wanted to swim, he would. The temperature wouldn't stop him. He forced himself to splash some water on his face, then plunged. It seemed like forever until he reached the surface again, although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Still, in that time span, Malcolm felt as though he'd been given all the answers to all the questions he could possibly ask himself now or in the future. Perhaps that was it, then. Clarity. Bliss. Catharsis. Or whatever people chose to call it. No matter what it was though, it still slipped through his fingers at an unbearable speed, to be replaced by cold. Unbelievable cold. Overwhelming cold. He quickly lost all feeling in his extremities, and tried to swim unsuccessfully for a while. Out of breath, he gave up, and walked back to the shore, his head pounding and his ears burning.

"Okay," he acknowledged to the dog, who seemed to be looking at him a bit strangely, "perhaps it wasn't my best idea to date."

His teeth shattering wildly and his clothes clutched to his chest, Malcolm made his way back up the cliff to the cabin. The swift pain in his head didn't leave him, not even after a boiling shower and some warm tea, but he was at peace. The voices had finally left him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Gravity - Chapter 4**

Oliver Reeder was a prat. And Clara had never felt like strangling another human being quite so badly. Make that torturing, slowly and viciously - the man didn't deserve the sweet relief of death. The day had started badly enough with her late arrival. She hadn't been sleeping properly for days, and with the weekend finally looming, she had pressed the 'snooze' button on her alarm clock one time too many. Having no time to eat breakfast, she had to rely on the office coffee machine, which stubbornly decided not to cooperate - that is, not before it promptly exploded all over her white shirt. On top of all that, Emily primly announced right before lunch that 'Clara's boyfriend' was there. Ollie Reeder had spent so much time these past few days at the Sanctuary Buildings - most often than not, following Clara around - that everyone seemed to imply that he was her _fellow_ or whatever other dreadful word they might come up with. Clara was too hungry and slow to react by that point to refuse his lunch invitation. But she drew the line when he insisted they went somewhere nice. Sandwiches in the conference room were her limit.

Looking at him now, making awfully nauseating eyes at her, she regretted her decision to say yes. Or her decision to let him be in the same room as her. Or the same building. Or city. A whole continent separating them might not be enough, judging by her ever-growing wish to either punch him or throw herself out of the window.

"Windows you can't even open, unfortunately," she said out loud.

"Sorry?" asked the DoSAC advisor, utterly lost.

"Nothing."

Clara tended to forget when and how to filter her thoughts when she was tired. And thus often spoke up without meaning to. She focused on her salmon sandwich once again, and pretended to listen to Reeder's assessment of the coming Special Needs bill and how _thrilled_ he was to work _hand in hand_ with Education on this. What a load of bollocks, she thought. That bill was a fiasco waiting to happen, and she was pretty sure Select Committees would be involved before it got anywhere.

Clara feared she had once again said that last part out loud. Reeder looked like he'd choked on one of his cucumber slices. But she quickly realised that this wasn't the case, and that his reaction was caused by the arrival of a wild Jock. Clara was apparently destined to be rescued from the overbearing familiarity of the bespectacled tosser by one James MacDonald. The smile quickly died on her lips when she realised that this time, she might not actually relish what he was about to say.

"Jamie?" The man looked like he hadn't slept in days, and yet his blue eyes were almost comically huge. But she clearly read distress rather than youthful wonder in them.

"I need to speak to you. Alone." His tone clipped, he barely paid attention to Reeder who, copying Clara, had stood up when Jamie entered the room. Except that she had done so in anguished expectation rather than fearful deference.

"The emergency staircase," she replied, equally short on words.

She left the room without sparing a look backwards, although she was vey much aware that any tedious conversation with Reeder would have been better for her nerves at the moment than listening to what Jamie had come to tell her.

"The police," he started as soon as they were out of earshot, "they told Sarah they have enough to charge him."

Clara leaned against the rail, all felling suddenly leaving her lower body. Her heart, on the other hand, was beating erratically.

"What does that mean?" she asked, dreading the answer she already knew was coming.

"They'll probably arrest him soon," he replied, giving voice to her fears.

"When exactly? Did they say?"

"No, and Sarah and Michael haven't been able to reach the CPS solicitor yet. But it could be on Monday or as early as tonight." Jamie shuffled his feet, and looked anywhere but at her.

"I take it they know where he is, then," she supplied in a soft voice, oxygen coming in short supply.

"Yes, it was agreed that they would let him leave London as long as he stayed within two hours of the city and reachable at all times. We stretched those two conditions a wee bit, but it won't stop them for long."

"So they'll go all the way to Brightstone to arrest him?" Clara couldn't imagine Malcolm being arrested in such quaint settings. It didn't fit, somehow.

"Sarah reckons they might charge him in Newport rather than London, but I doubt it. So yeah, the Met will go themselves."

"That doesn't give us a lot of time," she thought out loud, "but did you... Did you reach him? Did you tell him already?" Jamie sighed deeply, then nodded.

"I left him a message as soon as I heard to go to the phone-box in the village at noon so that I could talk to him properly. He picked up on the first ring. I wished I could have told him face to face, but..."

"It was better than leaving a message," she interrupted him, seeing how guilty he already felt.

"He took it better than I thought. I'm afraid the poor sod was probably expecting it," he added brokenly.

Clara's throat closed up, aware that it was the worst news of all. Malcolm had given up already.

"Or, you know, they could be bluffing. Michael says cops often do that to put pressure on the suspects. Make them crack and say or do something incriminating," he eventually uttered, intent on reassuring Clara now, just like she had tried to reassure him earlier.

But they both knew that luck hadn't been on their side since this whole thing started. And it wasn't about to change now.

"Are you going, then?" she asked, and Clara immediately regretted her question when she saw his crestfallen expression.

"I... I can't. It's a bloody nightmare at the Department with Malcolm gone. I'm barely holding everything together as it is, and... I don't want him to come back to a fucking mess, you know?"

She saw how close to the end of his tether Jamie actually was, and felt guilty for not having commiserated more over his own fate. Clara hadn't taken the time to wonder what it must be like in Downing Street without Malcolm dealing with the never ending list of daily crises. And despite all that, Jamie still believed that his boss would come back. Needed to believe it, probably. Lest he wanted to part with his sanity once and for all.

"That baldy nonce Nicholson is trying to take his place. I won't let that happen. No fucking way. And if the opposition ever gets wind of his absence, this is all going to turn into an even more massive shit storm."

Jamie was still trying to justify his reasons for not being able to go to Malcolm, and Clara knew she should stop him and tell him she understood, but she couldn't think of anything to say to make him feel better. Offering him platitudes wouldn't work, and he was good at self-castigating himself without her help - because, yes, she was definitely crossed with him for not going. Although this realisation gave her pause. Was he scared of going, perhaps? Scared of seeing his mentor in such a bad light? Scared of his reaction after having failed him?

"Sarah will just be a phone call's away if he's arrested, of course. She'll go to Newport if necessary, she's still his lawyer," he carried on, perhaps seeing the half-hidden reproach in Clara's eyes.

"I'll go," she then said, interrupting his speech, "I'll go today," she added, her mind made up.

"What? Are you sure? Clara..."

"I can take the afternoon off. I'm certainly allowed that after all I've done for this bloody department since I arrived." Her tone was resolute - there was no room for doubt in her words.

"I'm not sure he'll take it well, you know how fucking furious he can be when he's on the back-foot, and..."

"Jamie," she stopped him, her eyes flashing, "we are _not_ leaving him alone at a time like this, not knowing when or if the police might turn up to arrest him again. I don't care how _fucking furious_ he'll be, I just know that I have to go. I have to do something, and this is it."

He stared at her, trying to decipher her reasons for insisting on doing this. What he saw threw him at first, but then comforted him more than anything she could have possibly said to set his mind at ease on the subject. Jamie almost felt like smiling, and truly believed at that moment that things could turn out alright. More than alright. Energised by her utter composure, he stood a little straighter, the weight of the past two weeks a little lighter, and nodded.

Clara went home and packed a bag. She had bumped into the minister as she was exiting her office, intent on quickly reaching HR to request the afternoon off - she was tempted to leave without informing them, but professional conscience eventually kicked in - and he had looked worryingly at her. When she explained that she was leaving for the day, citing family issues, he took her hand in his and she was startled to see actual concern in his eyes. _Take all the time you need, Clara. And be safe._ She had swallowed, hard, feeling tears at the corners of her eyes, and eventually nodded, painfully glad for his comforting words.

Driving to Portsmouth took longer than the last time, and she had to stop a couple of times to let her engine cool off. Her old car was complaining about her rough treatment these past few weeks, and Clara eventually slowed down when she realised that having a break down now would be disastrous. It was raining on the way to Fishbourne and the horizon was darkening already, but she still went on the deck, wishing for the ferry to go faster. She only started thinking about what she would say to Malcolm as she reached Newport. Trying not to notice the police station, she racked her brain for ideas. He'd probably be on edge, expecting a knock on the door at any moment. She didn't imagine for a second that he might have done a runner. This just wasn't who Malcolm Tucker was. Still, anticipating his reaction at seeing her was close to impossible.

_I'll know what to do when I get there_, she kept repeating to herself uselessly.

She parked her red car further from the cabin than the last time, in the hope that she wouldn't spook him. When he opened the door, swiftly, she found out that nothing could have prepared her for the terror she read in his eyes. Her heart stopped, and his face slowly took on a different expression, just as terrible, when he saw that it was her and not the police. A dawning realisation.

"Oh, you're here to get your dog back, then." His voice was raw and utterly alien to her. Small, and almost childlike. Guarded. Ashamed. His head apparently too heavy for his neck and shoulders, bowed down under the weight of the world. The weight of his despair.

Clara's first urge was to slap him, hard. To rekindle the fire in his eyes and hopefully anger him in the process. Anger would be good. Anger would be something she could work with. Instead, Clara acted on her second impulse and all but crushed his body to hers. He didn't have time to react before she looped her arms securely around him and pulled at his hair with more force than strictly necessary. Her mouth came crashing against his, her teeth probably knocking a few of his loose in the process of frenziedly kissing him. Kissing him as though it were the first and last kiss they'd ever have - and perhaps it was. Kissing him like there were no tomorrow - and perhaps there wasn't. She felt his intake of breath against her lips, a beat, a sigh, and then he responded.

Her hands moved from his hair to his face, barely taking note that the heavy stubble of last week had been replaced by an almost fully-fledged beard. She felt the muscles of his jaw working furiously, his tongue against the roof of her mouth, now. When she tired of standing on her tip toes, he boldly pressed her tighter against him, his fingers already making their way past the waistband of her trousers. His intent was clear, but then so was hers. His kisses were bruising and her pleasure was flaring alarmingly fast. There was no way she would make him slow down, though. She breathed hard through her nose as he bit her lower lip, eliciting an involuntary moan from deep inside her chest, a moan he couldn't help but copy. She slid her fingers to the smooth skin at the back of his neck, but quickly missed the bristle of his facial hair.

When clothes eventually got in the way of their roaming hands, Malcolm started walking backwards slowly, his mouth never leaving hers. She followed blindly, her body humming with expectation. A door was opened then closed, and Clara found herself roughly pushed against it. But Malcolm's arms were there to cushion her back, and she ground herself against his unmistakable hardness, one of her legs rising to hook around his waist. He groaned when their centres finally connected, and he helped her raise her other leg to settle all her weight on his hips. Her body now flushed against his, the air around them crackling with desire, Malcolm released her lips and Clara arched her back, pressing herself more snugly against his erection. He emitted a low purr at the contact and rasped his tongue across her neck. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she let herself succumb under his touch. She tried unsuccessfully to generate more friction between them, but this would mean untangling her legs from his waist. When Malcolm felt her hands slowly sliding down his chest and reach his fly, he stiffened and started walking backwards once more, Clara still draped around him.

She suddenly felt a mattress under her and their clothes were gone in a matter of seconds. Clara then pulled him back into the cradle of her thighs, where he belonged. There was no time for hesitation, only action and reaction. The thudding of her heart answered his and only his and the emotions raging through her were for him and only him. For this moment. This instant between them. Malcolm gazed down at her with hungry, burning eyes and as they joined Clara felt that she was getting him back. She was getting the man she'd fallen in love with back.

_Malcolm Finn Tucker, evidence has come to light, as a result of which I'm arresting you on suspicion of holding and distributing child pornography. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?_

He didn't recognise the voice. It was so very cold and inflexible. Other voices followed, other words. All of them just as cruel and accusing. Then another voice, softer. And another sound - a scratching of some kind. The new voice was calling out his name. A woman. But it wasn't his mother or his sisters. He had difficulty recognising that tone, although he unconsciously tried to reach out for it. To find its source. That voice was safe, he knew. That voice...

"Malcolm!"

Darkness. Soft sheets smelling of dust and sweat and...

"Wake up, Malcolm!"

Hands running through his hair. And the scratching sound was still there. It came from the door. Someone was at the door. Someone was there to... He sat up quickly, dread engulfing him once more.

"Shh, it's okay, it's just the Doctor."

Padding feet, creaking wood and a fast shape running straight for him. Blueish light had also appeared from behind the door, and Malcolm managed to catch a glimpse of the whining dog. He leaned down towards him and started patting him expertly behind the ears, like he had done almost every morning this past week.

"The nightmare woke him," said Clara, coming to sit with him on the small bed. Beautiful, naked Clara. He felt his cheeks heating up self-consciously at his own nakedness, and lowered his eyes to the dog.

"Yes, he's always having nightmares," he replied in a raspy voice.

"I didn't mean him. It was _your_ nightmare that woke him. He heard you before I did." Malcolm stopped petting the animal, and turned towards Clara, his embarrassment forgotten.

"What?"

"You were having a bad dream, and the Doctor heard it. Or felt it, I'm not sure how that works. He hasn't done that in a long time, but I remember."

"But... No, he was the one having a nightmare, that's why he's making that sound," Malcolm said, frowning, doubt creeping in his mind.

"He's making that sound because you scared him, and he wants to make sure that you're alright," she enunciated slowly, moving closer to him and looking at him with compassionate eyes. He quickly averted his gaze, feeling trapped. When the Doctor quieted down, he stood up.

"I'll uh, go and sleep on the sofa, no point keeping you awake," he muttered, bending down to retrieve some of his clothes.

"It's almost morning, and I'm not planing on getting back to sleep. Stay here, Malcolm," she told him earnestly.

"I'll go for a swim, then."

"A swim?"

"Yeah, I need a swim. And I have to check for new messages." His boxers and trousers back on, he finally turned towards her once again. She wasn't ashamed of her own nudity, and Malcolm couldn't help but stare at her body longingly for a few seconds. Her eyes remained inscrutable.

"Can I take the Doctor with me? He usually comes with me," he asked, remembering all of a sudden why she had come here. Why she had _probably _come here. She lowered her shoulders, puzzled.

"Of course you can. But Malcolm..."

"I'll be quick, I promise. If they come while I'm away, tell them I'll be right back." He turned his back to her before he had time to see her reaction, and was soon on his way down the cliff.

The sun was just about to rise behind him, but he still got in the water much faster than usual. He almost didn't feel the cold, and swam for a short while. He'd managed to swim just a bit longer each day, and today was no exception. The previous morning, he had thought this would be the last time he ever felt the salty water against his skin. The last time for a long time. Maybe today, then. Better make the most of it. He ran back to the towel he now brought down with him, the Doctor at his heels, and only then did he stop and think about Clara, and about what they did. He shouldn't make her wait, she probably wanted to leave quickly. _Probably_. That word, again.

Towelling himself dry, his limbs shaking, he noticed small red marks on his chest. And the obvious imprint of teeth near his belly button. When she... _Jesus_, he thought, wondering wistfully what it would be like to make love to her again. Properly. What it would be like if she were his for more that one night. And not just one night she felt enough pity inside her to grant a dying man's last request. Except he hadn't requested anything. And he hadn't tasted pity on her lips. But that's what it had been about, right? His heart clenched painfully, and Malcolm couldn't decide if it was because of the cold or because he wanted to be wrong about his last assessment.


	5. Chapter 5

**Gravity - Chapter 5**

Clara watched him exit the cabin with her dog at his heels and a towel under his arm worryingly. When the door closed, she finally noticed how cold she was. And how naked. For a few tensed seconds, she wondered whether she should just leave as well. She'd behaved rashly, she knew, and had only listened to her instincts. In the freezing half-light of dawn, Clara started doubting herself and her decision to come here. Her decision to throw caution to the wind and simply let herself _feel_. Let herself share the only thing she could share with the man she had come to love. Would it be enough? She didn't naively believe that she could _save_ him - whatever the hell that meant in a situation like this - but this didn't mean that she couldn't try and help him.

She sighed deeply and started dressing up in the previous day's clothes. She wanted to feel warm again. Feel him next to her again. For that to happen, she needed to get her mind straight first. A shower would be nice, but she expected him back - him or the police, actually - any second. And if he hadn't been joking about his intent to swim, he'd need a hot shower more than her.

There was barely any light outside, and the cold drizzle prickled at her cheeks almost accusingly. _What have you done?_ She picked her bag from the boot of her car and set it inside the cabin next to the sofa. Sitting down, she found herself once again alone with her thoughts.

Clara couldn't regret what she'd done. What _they'd_ done. She had felt more alive that she had in weeks, and there was no mistaking that Malcolm had felt the same. What she regretted was how she had handled things this morning. She hadn't realised that he was having a nightmare until she heard the Doctor scratching at the door outside. The sound had frozen her in fear and brought back its lot of deeply buried memories. It had taken her precious seconds to notice that she wasn't the one having a bad dream, but rather the shaking man lying next to her. His belief that her dog was the one who needed comfort had almost brought tears to her eyes, since she remembered thinking the same thing when she had been in his position not so long ago.

She was prevented from torturing herself further by the sound of the back door creaking open. Malcolm's skin was almost as white as the towel hanging from around his neck, and Clara was once again startled by how much weight he'd lost since she'd last seen him at Downing Street. Her eyes must have betrayed her thoughts, because he started fidgeting nervously. Self-consciously. As though he was still naked, like when he had woken up this morning.

"I like the new look," she said, aiming for levity. He raised his considerable eyebrows in question, and she smiled slightly despite herself.

"The crazy wooly hair and the beard. It's nice," she added, taking strange pleasure in his dumbfounded expression.

"Right," he muttered, his hands unconsciously reaching for his face and the back of his neck, as though unsure if she was actually talking about him.

His eyes now fixed on the ground, he finally took note of her bag. A bag that clearly held more than one change of clothes. Malcolm abruptly stopped wringing his hands, and he looked up wonderingly at her. She was apparently behaving in a way that he hadn't expected. Too bad, she thought, secretly pleased with herself.

"I'll go shower," he then supplied unnecessarily, given how cold and drenched he looked.

"I'll make us some tea," Clara answered, paradoxically finding strength - strength he himself lacked - in his hesitation.

When she heard the water starting, she also took the time to properly greet her dog. She hadn't been alone with him yet, given how otherwise occupied she'd been the previous night. Unlike Malcolm, he looked radiant and full of life. All that space and clean air was probably doing him a world of good. She smiled, happy that someone was at least benefiting from the situation.

Malcolm was subdued when he came out of the shower, as though he'd had a proper think under the warm spray. But he didn't voice his feelings and indeed barely spoke to her. He kept throwing nervous glances at the door, and each time a wooden shutter creaked outside or the wind rattled the door, he tensed up and swore under his breath, castigating himself for his uncontrollable reaction. Clara had a hard time stopping herself from reaching out to him, but she knew her touch wouldn't be welcomed. Not then.

The weather outside was as bleak as the mood inside. The sun remained firmly hidden behind heavy clouds, and the rain didn't let up. The police hadn't arrived by noon and Clara distracted herself by making a light lunch consisting of microwaved lasagne. No wonder he'd lost weight, she thought, realising that tea, crisps and whiskey were the only appealing food she found in the cupboards. Neither ate more then a few forkfuls, and neither spoke. Malcolm started pacing the room as soon as he was up from his kitchen chair, and Clara tried not to ask him to stop. His incessant movements were giving her a headache, and her utter ineffectiveness angered her.

When he got tired of walking, he sat down on the sofa and started pouring once more over the files that lay scattered on the coffee table. There was one particular printed sheet of paper he kept coming back to, and Clara's curiosity was piqued. Walking behind him, she managed to catch a glimpse of it, and what she read made her gasp audibly in disgust. The police hadn't included the incriminating pictures in their report, but they had still felt it necessary to supply a detailed written description for each and every one of them. Short and to the point as said descriptions may be, they still didn't spare any sordid detail, and Clara felt sick to her stomach after picking up only a few words.

"Stop reading that. You won't find any answer in there, you're just going to make yourself feel worse," she blurted out, her voice shaking.

Malcolm turned swiftly towards her, startled to see her standing right behind him.

"I'll do what I like," he stubbornly answered, his eyes leaving hers quickly to go back to the horrid list.

Clara walked around the sofa to face him, her pace resolute.

"This is stupid and pointless, what are you trying to achieve?"

"What is it to you?" he roared, standing up and discarding the file angrily.

"You shouldn't read that," she told him, unconcerned by his towering figure over her.

"On the contrary, I think I should," he replied darkly, his long legs taking him around the small room once more.

"But this is sick!"

"That's the point, maybe _I'm _fucking sick. Sick and perverted and twisted and..."

"Stop that," she interrupted him, grabbing his forearms to prevent him from escaping. But he was strong. And determined. His eyes held pure, unadulterated disgust. Whether the disgust was aimed at himself or her, she couldn't be sure.

"Haven't you heard, Clara?" he bellowed, his own hands holding her elbows in a vice, "I'm about to be arrested. Any minute, now. Who the fuck do you think I am, exactly? Who the fuck do you think _you_ are, telling me what to do?"

She was shaking, part in fear and part in rage. Malcolm wasn't just unhinged, he was completely disconnected with the outside world. He probably didn't even know he was talking to her, locked inside his own mind. A mind haunted by dangerous demons.

"I said stop it, Malcolm!" she yelled, using all the strength she had left to push against his chest forcefully. He took a step back, and his hands slid to her wrists, which he kept on clenching tightly.

"I have every right to tell you what to do, and you need to listen to me," she added, intent on trying to push him away once more, but his grip was almost painful and he prevented her from removing her hands from his chest. "I know who you are."

"You have no idea. I could be evil and you wouldn't even know it," he interrupted her. She pushed against his chest in answer, angry tears starting to leak from her eyes. But she wouldn't give up now. She had come this far.

"You are not evil, Malcolm."

"How would you know?"

"You are _not_ evil. Trust me on that. I've seen evil and you are not _it_."

This seemed to give him pause, and she took the opportunity to release her wrists from his grasp with a hard shove that almost made him trip over the carpet.

"What else would you have me do, then?" he asked her, changing the subject but not ready to end the conversation yet, "I'm fucking trapped, here."

"Jamie and Sarah will find something," she reasoned, wondering if she should keep her distance from him.

"Oh yeah? And what have they found? Did Jamie tell you something I don't know during your nightly rituals of phoning each other?"

_How the hell did he know about that? And where was this jealousy coming from?_

She approached him slowly, wary of his flailing arms but more scared of the message she would be sending if she stayed away. Anger was gradually leaving him, she could see it in his eyes. He looked exhausted.

"You're just all delaying the inevitable. And I'm fucking tired of waiting." Malcolm had stopped yelling, and she walked as close to him as she dared.

"I'm tired of waiting, Clara," he repeated quietly. Defeated.

Clara nodded in understanding, her eyes not leaving his as she slid her trembling hands around his neck. She kissed him slowly, tenderly, letting him get used to her touch.

"I know," she whispered against his lips, wishing she could swallow his pain and make it disappear.

Malcolm's response was guarded at first, but he eventually placed his hands tentatively on her hips and deepened their kiss. Clara let him press her body closer to his and moved her hands to smooth through his unruly hair. It was still slightly wet from his morning shower and her weaving fingers seemed to elicit a new fervour in her lover.

If the previous night had been about feeling alive, today was about drowning despair. Their passion was unforgiving and finding release was their only goal. Their moans were half pain, half pleasure and they paid little mind to either their clothes or the furniture that separated them from the bedroom. The tender kisses had quickly been replaced by bruising, urgent ones. There was no time to savour the feeling of a light touch or a whisper. Everything was wild and fast and loud and rough. A bite where her shoulder met her neck. A pressure building far too quickly between her legs. A burning wave about to crash over the both of them. Hot tears mingling on their necks. They didn't care whose tears they were or what had caused them. The only thing that mattered was completion and the peace it would hopefully bring.

Clara clutched Malcolm's sharp-featured body tightly against hers on the bed, enjoying the feel of his long fingers caressing her breasts in a way that was wonderfully out of synch with his deep and powerful strokes inside of her. They were both out of breath and light headed, but reaching their peak was of the outmost importance. As though everything, including their very sanity, depended on it. His back muscles were tensing under her hands, and his moans became more and more insistent. She was close, oh so close, and his wiry frame kept pounding against her and eliciting deep, almost painful cries from inside her. He was baring his very self to her, and she gave as good as she got, using her short nails to leave marks against his spine.

She pressed her lips forcefully to his when her orgasm surged and he joined her soon after with a sharp exhale and a shudder, her name a relieved sigh against her mouth. Clara wanted him to stay inside her and never let go, but he eventually settled next to her on his side, his breath coming in short gasps. She almost complained at the loss of his presence and the last thing she felt before she succumbed to the darkness was a sloppy kiss on her neck. They both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, their nerve endings still on fire.

Malcolm woke up to a pleasant, warm weight over his chest. Clara's body was draped over his in the small bed, and he breathed in the smell of her hair and her skin deeply. It was probably the first time in a long time he hadn't been woken up by a nightmare, so he took a few minutes to enjoy the simple pleasure of feeling his limbs come to life again. Not just his limbs, he realised quickly, and he let himself savour that sensation too. Similarly, he could barely remember the last time he had woken up next to another person, especially someone as beautiful and sexy as Clara Oswald. His hands slowly moving over the soft skin of her lower back, careful not to startle her, he realised that he didn't care if the police came in right now. Sure, they would shatter the serenity of the moment, but at least he would take this precious memory with him.

He sighed, very much aware that his current mood wouldn't last, and disengaged himself as quietly as he could from Clara's hold. Thankfully, she didn't wake up, and he blindly picked up the clothes he recognised as his from the floor. Closing the door quietly behind him, he noticed that it was still dark outside, and that the wind was howling with more insistence than usual. He found the Doctor in his usual spot next to the sofa, and he seemed thrilled at the prospect of going on a short walk outside. The elements were working against him, but he still managed to check his voicemail - no new messages - and observe the gathering clouds lighted by the moon over the churning sea. A storm was coming.

Back inside, he made himself some coffee, wrapped himself in the scratchy blanket and tried to read a few more chapters of the Dickens novel Sam had given to him. But he felt trapped between his wish for the Met to knock already and arrest him, and his wish to join Clara in the next room again. He knew that realistically, five o'clock on a Sunday morning was probably not the moment the police would choose to come and indict him. On the _fucking_ Isle of Wight, at least. Sadly, he also knew that there likely wouldn't come another time when he felt such serenity at the prospect of being taken away in cuffs. The happy bubble surrounding him was quickly fading into non-existence. It would be completely gone shortly.

The files on the coffee table seemed to stare at him accusingly. _You don't deserve to be happy. You know it won't last. Why go through all this pain again? _SoMalcolm angrily picked them up, and went through all of them one more time. Despite Clara's warning, he didn't skip the sordid list, and actually welcomed the anger it always kindled inside him. He had started to become quite familiar with this anger, and he let himself being swallowed by it.

When he woke up again, it was to the terrifying certainty that everything was about to end. The very house was shaking on its foundations with this realisation, and it took him a while to notice that the storm he felt raging inside of him was raging outside as well.

"It's okay, it's just me," said Clara's blurry face. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, files lay scattered everywhere and she was standing over him.

"Sorry," he whispered, even though he wasn't quite sure what he was apologising for.

He sat up against one of the armrests, and slid his fingers over his face. Perhaps the time had come to shave, he thought. But a part of him enjoyed this small rebellion, and he hadn't missed Clara's apparent interest in it. A light dose of vanity had never killed anyone after all.

"What?" he eventually said, reading quite reproach in her eyes.

"You didn't have to leave," she told him.

"I didn't think I'd manage to go back to sleep."

"Still. You could have woken me. I wouldn't have minded."

Malcolm observed her closely. This beautiful young woman who offered herself to him so easily. So completely. So utterly. This wasn't right. He was missing something. Something important that would explain her behaviour. Clara seemed to read his thoughts and sighed, worry lines appearing between her eyebrows. She folded one leg under her and sat down on the sofa. Just close enough to touch him if she stretched out her arms, which she did.

"Malcolm..."

He prevented her from adding more by encircling her wrists with his hands. When she winced, he stiffened and looked down. Small bruises were forming there, the imprint of his fingers clearly visible. He blanched, and let go of her hands as though burned. He tried to stand up to put more distance between them but she wouldn't let him, and pushed hard against his shoulders.

"Malcolm, look at me." He wouldn't. This was worse than he had thought. Had he really lost control to the point of hurting her? Leaving a mark on her fine, precious skin? What kind of monster was he becoming?

"It's okay, I bruise easily. You didn't hurt me, I swear." Her tone was slightly desperate, as though she knew very well who he was afraid of turning into. And why he felt like acid was burning a hole inside his stomach.

"Please, look at me," she repeated, her small hands framing his face, stroking his facial hair. "You're not evil, Malcolm."

He deigned raising his eyes to hers, although he didn't manage to quench the anger tormenting him. It would be so easy to push her away. Just as easy as tugging her down towards him to kiss her, but he still chose the former.

"What's in it for you, Clara? I just don't understand."

"Understand what?" she asked, clearly puzzled, her hands stopping their movements and settling on his shoulders once more.

"Is it pity or guilt that makes you do that?" Malcolm didn't have to elaborate on the 'that', she knew perfectly well what he meant. What he hadn't anticipated was that it would quite simply enrage her.

"Pity?" she repeated darkly, a cold smile on her lips, "Is that what you think this has all been about? A pity shag for the poor Malcolm Tucker who's about to be arrested for a terrible crime he didn't commit?"

Malcolm gulped down, very much aware of the presence of her hands next to his neck. In that moment, he believed that she might very well strangle him if she wanted to. His eyes widened at the realisation that she was just as good as him at using her anger to control her emotions.

"Or maybe it's guilt, you're right. Guilt at the responsibility I feel for letting you erase that fucker from the registry."

He wanted to tell her that it wasn't her fault, and that he would have done it whether she'd been in his office or not, but she didn't give him the chance. She'd pressed her face right in front of his and straddled his lap unceremoniously. He bit back a groan at her closeness, but his reaction didn't escape her and she looked victorious. This conversation was going in a direction he hadn't foreseen.

"I _do_ feel terribly guilty about that, Malcolm. You have no idea." He couldn't tell if she was being serious, what with her undulating hips and the sweet pressure he felt building in his groin. He slid his hands to her sides with the firm intention of stopping her but realised once they were in place that he couldn't.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, her lips millimetres from his own, tantalising him, "you forgot something on your list."

"What?" he asked stupidly, his own hips starting to rise from the sofa to create more friction between them.

"Pity, guilt, and let's not forget daddy issues. Everyone would agree on that one." Her smile was definitely impish, now, and he thus didn't hesitate to move his hands to her arse and press her snugly over his rapidly growing erection. She moaned wantonly and his heart skipped a beat at the sound.

"Clara?"

"Yes?" she replied, her eyes closed and her fingers stroking the hair at the back of his neck.

"Please don't say the word 'daddy' when you're sitting on my cock." She opened her eyes and for the first time that day smiled genuinely at him. She moved her mouth to his ear and whispered a breathless 'Yes, sir,' that gave him tingles all the way to his toes. Clara then started rasping her tongue across his collarbone and he forgot where his earlier anger had been coming from.


End file.
